good samaritan
by THE AMBASSADOR OF HUGS
Summary: Hawke is no good at being selfish.


Hawke loves Fenris in an unconditional, selfless kind of way. And Hawke has always been the caregiver, the leader, who holds everyone else above himself, no matter how much strain that is on his already laden shoulders. He's good at smothering his fantasies and urges, pressing them somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach, and letting them fester quietly, untended but nonlethal wounds.

Hawke has never been selfish, and it's killing him. But in life or in death, he loves Fenris, wholly and happily in the kind of way that gets a man out of bed in the morning and keeps him up at night. Only metaphorically, of course. Hawke doesn't impose, won't impose on the wry, beautiful, cruel elf. Fenris has had enough of chains, and Hawke will never be the one to bind him.

And when Fenris kisses Hawke, when Fenris leads him to bed, when Fenris moves in wonderful ways with him, Hawke scolds himself for hoping. He scolds himself for imposing. And he scolds himself, above all, for making the elf feel pain. But even then, when Fenris leans against the fireplace and must, ultimately, leave, Hawke strangles the desperation that claws nervously up his throat, ties the hands that would reach out, and severs the legs that would follow Fenris.

And Hawke sits for a long time in his room, disabled by his own doing, and feels every desire he ever squashed pooling, not in his stomach, where they'd been imprisoned, but in his heart. And Hawke realizes that he also needs to get away. He needs to leave. And so he does, quietly, telling no one, inconveniencing no one. He leaves his weapons behind and heads somewhere far away.

* * *

><p>It's two days before Isabela mentions the conspicuous absence. It's not as if the party meets every day, but Hawke is a friendly kind of person, always checking up and always doing good deeds. It never occurs to one of them that he might need some checking up too. "D'you think he's at his mansion? I wonder if he's sick," she considers, fingering the wet ring on the wooden table where her beer used to be.<p>

Varric laughs. "I've known that man for years, and I've never heard him cough." The Hanged Man is noisy in a way that keeps the quietest conversations secret. But Isabela wastes no energy being quiet. She has no secrets to keep here, with Varric and Merrill and Aveline and Anders and Fenris. "He's probably helping some Darktown urchin learn his numbers. His goodwill would get on my nerves if I didn't know it was genuine," he snorts and takes a draught of the house's finest.

Fenris squirms with guilt.

* * *

><p>A week into Hawke's absence, Aveline and Anders ask everyone who will spare a moment. As well known as Hawke is there is not a rumor, not a whisper of where he has gone. There is no trail of witnesses, no path to follow. And Fenris has not slept for three days.<p>

A month, and they have been searching for two weeks. All but Merrill and Fenris are grave, hope fled from their eyes and desperation all but lost, replaced with a trudging sorrow. Fenris is still too desperate, too hopeful, and is clinging to any chance. He doesn't even long for redemption, the way he did after the morning after. He just wants Hawke to be alive, breathing, smiling. Happy.

Fenris doesn't crush his fantasies. He imagines himself with Hawke, but when that is too laced with regret and self-loathing, he even imagines Anders or Merrill, piecing back together the thing that Fenris destroyed. Fenris also imagines Hawke dead, but not because he wants to. He is not grave or hopeless yet, still too desperate.

Merrill is only naive.

* * *

><p>Another three days passed, and Aveline returns to her post, Anders to his clinic. And on the farthest reaches of the Wounded Coast, ages out from Kirkwall, at dusk, they find a little village and stories of a hero who protects it. A hero that is everything Varric ever has imagined, ever could have depicted of Hawke. And there he is, sitting on the edge of the pier, book in hand. Varric nearly pushes him into the water, and Merrill sobs. Isabela thwacks him with the book and scolds him as he laughs sheepishly.<p>

Fenris only stares. He looks at the hero, sitting in waist-high water, squinting against the setting sun, smiling and laughing and breathing and alive. And he wades out, all in armor, grabs Hawke by his shirtfront, and kisses him. Fenris is not surprised when Hawke does not respond, or when Varric and Isabela excuse themselves, dragging Merrill along with them.

And Fenris looks into Hawke's eyes, expecting to see hurt and anger. But all he can see is joy, and love, and hope, because Hawke is allowing himself this, and allowing himself to smile and touch Fenris' face and put his forehead against the elf's, warm silhouettes on a beach, and know that what him and Fenris have can't be repressed or forgotten.

"I love you."

And it doesn't matter which of them spoke it first.


End file.
